


Wake Me

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, Time Travel, kind of sort of underage but not really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester is on life support and Mike has to pull the plug. He wishes he could go back in time and stop this from happening, so he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Me

**Author's Note:**

> For Ella
> 
> _Should I have a taste of this, run across your lips and start all over again. Could this all just be a dream? If I should fall to stormy weather, wake me._

All Mike can think is, how did he not know? How did he not see this chain of events unraveling sooner? How did things get so far out of his grasp and so far out of control? They need an answer, soon. The rest of the band has all agreed - keeping Chester on life support is redundant. This is a busy hospital and they need the bed, so why drag this out longer than any of them are comfortable to?

But Mike hasn't been able to speak since he got here and this isn't a decision he wants to make. Lee Bennington stands in the corner of the room looking anywhere but at his son, and Mike wants him to choose. He wants to take his name off Chester's next-of-kin record. He wants to start over, from the beginning.

Brad puts a steady hand on his shoulder and looks at him, "You need to say it, Mike," he murmurs.

The hum and hiss and beep of the machines create a rhythm for Mike’s heart to beat to. His head is spinning and Brad's urgent murmur comes to him again and he finds his knees buckling. He hits the floor and clamps his hands over his ears, eyes closed. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. And he lets rip a blood curdling scream.

***

When Mike comes to he is in a bed. Fucking hospital. He sits up and the memories of his little break down flood back to him with a clarity he'd rather they didn't have. This isn't one for the scrap book. A nurse rushes in looking startled at him trying to leave. "Sir, we have to ask you to stay. Just for a moment. The doctor has some questions."

"I'm just exhausted," he says, rubbing his eyes as he slips out of bed."My friend is here, Chester Bennington? I have to tell them to turn the life support machine off. I just...I can't...his friends are all waiting for an answer."

The nurse puts up a flat hand to stop him, "Well, sir, you came in all by yourself. We found you unconscious on the floor in the waiting room. Are you sure you have the right hospital? For your friend, I mean? I've been on shift all night and I haven't seen you around on ICU."

Mike blinks at her, "Yeah. This is LA general, right?"

"No, sir. This is Banner Good Samaritan Medical Centre, Phoenix, Arizona."

Having toured the world he is used to multiple countries having the same names. There are towns in countries named after other countries and streets named after other towns. But he is pretty sure there's no Arizona in Los Angeles. Mike raises an eyebrow and look around, dumbly.

"Have you taken any recreational drugs, sir?"

"Not today." He barges past her and out into the hallway where doctors and patients shuffle around slowly, no sense of urgency here. He keeps going, following a green line on the floor until he reaches the entrance and step outside. The sun glares, setting everything into silhouette for a moment before he blinks and focus his eyes.

"This isn't California," he says out loud.

A cop walking out beside him laughs, adjusts his hat, "No it ain't, Dorothy."

Looking him up and down Mike almost faints, "Arizona, right?"

A group of teenagers with long hair stringy with grease march past wearing Kurt Cobain T-shirts and Mike watches the cop watch them with a sad look. "Shame about that 'un."

“What?”

"Cobain," the cop says, "killed himself."

"Yeah, like, almost twenty years ago," Mike laughs as he pats down his pockets for his cell phone. He needs to call Brad. Coming up empty he sighs to himself and turns back to the cop who is staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you have a cell phone I can borrow?”

“No, sir, do I look like I have a money tree in my back yard? Plus,” he says, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “they give you tumours. Don’t tell you that in the ads now, do they?” He looks like he might go to say something else but his radio buzzes loudly behind the rolled up window of his patrol car and he tips his hat to Mike before turning away.

He needs to find a pay phone but sure as hell isn't risking being strapped down to a gurney by going back in the hospital, so he picks a direction and walks. Arizona in April isn't somewhere to take a long walk in a hoodie and jeans and Mike soon feels delirious from the heat. It takes him thirty minutes to find somewhere to stop and when he does it’s a Burger King. Beggars, he supposes, can’t be choosers, and he sucks it up and ducks inside. He had never thought air conditioning and a burger would be as high on his list of priorities as they are right now, and he is grateful of those two things if nothing else.

There’s nobody on the counter and Mike finds himself slumped over it before long until an angry voice from somewhere in the busy diner behind him yells, “Chet! Get on the doggone counter, would you?”

Mike turns around to meet the eyes of an angry-looking manageress who shakes her head and goes back to standing talking to a customer with a baby wedged on her hip. If you’re not busy, Mike thinks, you come and serve me. There’s the sound of sneakers squeaking on cheap linoleum floor and Mike turns around slowly, freezes in place.

“Can I help you?”

“Chester?”

The guy behind the counter frowns and narrows his eyes behind his wire-frame glasses. He has shoulder length, brown hair in a tangle of dreadlocks pulled back and jammed under a baseball cap and his lip is pierced with a ring. “Do I know you?”

The room starts to spin and Mike grips the edge of the counter to hold him steady, tries to focus on the man in front of him. It’s Chester, alright. Mike would recognise him anywhere, but the guy behind the counter must barely be eighteen. Realising he is staring blankly Mike clears his throat, “Uh...I...no. No, you don’t. Can I get a hamburger?”

“That’s McDonalds.”

“Then whatever the Burger King equivalent is,” Mike snaps and digs change out of his pocket.

The guy who might be but can’t possibly be Chester watches him with barely concealed disgust before grabbing a burger from the hot shelves behind him and dumping it on a plastic tray. He pushes it forward with a receipt underneath that has the address of the diner printed at the top and the date at the bottom. Mike raises it to his face and stares at it, dropping it with his mouth open to continue staring at might-be-can’t-be-Chester.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“What’s the date?”

“April 11th. Seriously, dude, there’s a line and my boss is gonna bust my ass if I don’t-”

“What year?”

Might-be-can’t-be-Chester rolls his eyes and snaps, “1994. Are you done, now?”

That is when Mike passes out.

***

When he comes to he is on his back on the ground and someone is standing over him. The smell of cigarette smoke hits him first, followed by the realisation that he is lying in somebody’s shadow. Opening his eyes the shadow above him says, “Dude, you okay?” The shadow sticks out a hand for Mike to take and pulls him into a sitting position. “My boss, she wanted to call the cops or an ambulance but I thought you were wired so I didn't.”

“Thanks,” Mike mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn't feel the need to deny being on drugs, lets it go because at least then he has an explanation for being so weird. “Is it seriously 1994?” He asks.

The shadow sits down beside him on the hot asphalt and the daylight reveals him to be might-be-can’t-be-Chester and he nods. “Yeah. Man. I wish I was as high as you. It’s not even one in the afternoon. How did you know my name?”

“Are you really called Chester?”

Might-be-can’t-be-Chester runs his tongue over his lip ring and nods, “Yeah.”

“Are you in a band?”

“Yeah.”

“Grey Daze, right?”

Chester smiles, excited, “Yeah. Wow, that’s pretty cool. But...I didn't think my music would be your thing, you know?”

Mike frowns, “Why not?”

“Because you’re old.”

“I’m not fucking old!” Mike snaps, snatching Chester’s cigarette from him to take a drag. He doesn't think twice about it, was always something he did, but Chester looks at him as if he has walked into his house on Christmas day and pissed on his dog.

“Yeah, you are. You’re, what, forty?”

“No, I’m not fucking forty!” Mike says, trying not to laugh. "How old are you?"

Chester pushes his glasses further up his nose and takes his cigarette back. "Just turned eighteen," he says "why?"

"When you're eighteen everybody seems old," Mike smiles, gets to his feet and brushes off his jeans. He wants to leave because he needs to go somewhere and throw up, but he has nowhere to go. All he has is the money in his wallet and the clothes on his back. He feels like he is on a different planet - this can't really be happening. It isn't 1994. He is asleep, passed out on the floor of Chester's hospital room as the machines hum and beep and keep the singer alive. Only he isn't. He is here and now, and Chester is in front of him.

“I’m playing a show, tonight,” Chester says as he gets to his feet. He is as tall as Mike always remembers, awkward angles and that hair…but Mike has seen the person this boy grows into and he wants to tell him what an amazing person he is but he is lucky nobody has called the cops already so he decides against it.

“Awesome. I’ll be there,” he says, because really, where else would he be?

“What’s your name?”

“Mike,” he says, “Mike Shinoda.”

And Chester sticks out his hand, birth stone ring tattoo still healing on his little finger, “Chester Bennington,” he says with a smile.

***

The gig is at the Silver Dollar, a small club in downtown Phoenix. Mike shows up as fashionably late as he can possibly manage, spending the rest of his evening wandering around aimlessly in the stifling evening heat. Before he goes in he stops at a payphone on the corner and drops in a quarter, punches in a number he hasn't forgotten even all these years later.

His mom answers the phone and there’s a smile in her voice, “Hello?”

“Hey, uh, can I talk to Mike, please?”

“Sure,” she says, there’s a rustling as she covers the mouth piece and calls out into the distance, “Mike? Phone.”

There’s silence for a moment, then he answers, “Hello?”

And Mike hangs up. Even if today has been the weirdest of his life, calling his sixteen year old self long-distance is too weird even for today. Next he calls Brad’s cell phone with his fingers crossed but it’s a dead line. He hangs up feeling dejected, and rests his head against the dirty glass of the phone booth.

The club is pretty full and there’s a band finishing the last few chords of their final song on stage. They’re not too bad, a little bit out of tune, but then again they’re probably famous now. In real life. Or, you know, whatever. He hangs at the back near the bar, fighting the temptation to buy a drink. He’s been sober for six months and that’s a lot of work to undo. Then he realises that the Chester who is here, now, he doesn't know any better so why not?

Back at home he wouldn't even be in a bar. The bottle of beer that the barman hands him is wet with condensation, the label peeling at the corners after a little while of holding it in his hands. He feels like this should be a bigger deal than it is, really, like someone should be sounding an alarm and everybody should be staring. The cheap beer goes down easily, the taste as bitter as it smells, and he orders another the second it is gone.

He hasn't felt this out of place since his first day at college. All around him cool, young things lean into one another in easy conversation. Dreadlocks, Mohawks and sticky hair dyed with Kool Aid, these kids are probably fresh out of high school, if that, and Mike wants that naivety back.

Grey Daze takes to the stage and everybody stops talking, wheel round to face the stage and applaud as the band takes their places. Chester appears behind a microphone, his shoulders hunched over as if he wants to disappear and he mumbles “Hey, we’re Grey Daze,” before the band start up and they launch into their first song. The set is good; Chester is as charming as Mike always knew him to be and the audience love it. The girls, in particular, fall over themselves to approach Chester when the band is finished.

From his position at the bar Mike watches Chester sign ticket stubs and breasts before he carves his way through the crowd to the back of the room, smiling the whole time. “I didn't think you’d come,” he says, leaning in to be heard over the music.

“I said I would, didn't I?” It occurs to Mike that though he may just be flirting with Chester this isn’t acceptable. Or legal, probably, seeing as Chester is only eighteen. He tries to tone it down but can’t bring himself to – the last time he saw Chester smile was before the hospital and the wires and the life support machine.

“What’s wrong?”

“My friend, he’s in hospital. It’s playing a lot on my mind.”

Chester chews his lip ring, “What happened to him?”

“He took a load of drugs and then drove his car, he’s gonna die.”

“Shit, man. That’s...fuck. My friend killed himself last month, it fucking sucks. I never want to go to another funeral in my fucking life.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly. Whatever, I mean, he’s happy now I guess? No more suffering and all that bullshit that they tell you. What they don’t tell you is how you’re meant to deal with it, you know? So I find that self medicating works a fucking treat,” he pulls a little bag of cocaine from the pocket of his baggy jeans and gestures with his head to the bathroom, “and sharing is caring.”

Mike knows this isn’t the right decision to make but soon finds himself herded into a tiny bathroom stall as Chester slides the bolt across and sets to making lines up on the dirty cistern. “Don’t your friends think it’s weird, you hanging out with me?”

Chester shrugs, pushes the powder around with the back of his credit card. “I don’t care. It’s not like any of them give a shit anyway, really. The guys in the band are more like colleagues than friends. My dad is a cop, so people automatically think they’re going to get busted for hanging around with me.”

“Isn’t that enough?” Mike asks as Chester tips some more powder out of the bag.

“You can go if you want, Grandpa.”

He doesn't want to, so he doesn't. Through a rolled up dollar bill they take it in turns doing the lines in silence. When the lines are gone Chester goes to put his card away but Mike snatches it from him, rolling his eyes. “You’re wasting the best part,” he says, pushing together the remains of the white powder to form another small line. He hands the dollar bill to Chester.

They stand there, awkwardly, Chester clutching the dollar and looking at Mike with wide eyes, glassy behind his spectacles. Mike wants to kiss him, feels his heart racing as they both stand there in silence. Chester turns away and does the other line, sniffs hard and tucks the dollar in his pocket, takes his credit card back with a mumbled thanks. When he looks up again his cheeks flush and he clears his throat, “I’m not gay.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask if you were, nor did I imply that I am.”

“So then, what? I mean, just now, you were looking at me...”

“Yeah, and you were looking back.”

Chester grits his teeth, flustered. “I have a fiancé. A girl fiancé. I’m not a faggot.”

The words sting more than Mike would care to admit. “What’s your fiancé called?”

“Sam. Samantha.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be getting engaged?”

Chester unlocks the cubicle door and steps out, inspecting his appearance in the smeared glass of the mirror above the sinks. “Aren’t you a little bit bold asking questions like that when you barely know me?”

Mike doesn’t say anything, watches Chester snatch his glasses away from his face and rub them frantically with his sweater. “I don’t fucking know you,” he snaps as he pushes them back onto his nose. “But I feel like...don’t you feel weird?”

“That’s probably the coke.”

“Yeah,” Chester murmurs, doubtfully, “yeah, I guess. I don’t know...” he glances at his watch and curses. “Fuck. I have to go. But do you want to get a drink or something, tomorrow? Lunch, maybe?”

“Yeah, sure. Where should I meet you?”

Chester shrugs as he hurries out of the bathroom, “Starbucks. On East McDowell. About twelve?”

Mike goes to say something but Chester is gone, disappearing through the crowd of the club still milling around. He follows, trudging outside. Where the fuck is he supposed to go? What does he do now? He wishes he knew more about why he is here, what the purpose of this little trip to the past is. The cocaine makes things easier to take, though, and he strolls down the street until he sees a cop car outside a seven eleven.

They give him directions to a shit hole hotel that are surprisingly accurate. Checking in is an anxious time seeing as Mike has no idea if his credit cards will work. Technically they’re not valid for another nineteen years, and he has no cash on him save for some change that he doubts would be enough even for a dump like this. His card works, by some miracle, and he makes his way up to his room. As he opens the door something scoots away across the floor into the bathroom and Mike vows not to go in there until he really has to and to find somewhere a little bit nicer to stay tomorrow.

It isn’t until he is in bed that the situation really hits him, and he buries his face in the dirty pillow to muffle his tired sobs.

***

Chester rocks up to the Starbucks forty minutes late with a black eye and a swollen lip. He stands at the edge of the booth Mike has chosen, “Have you ordered?”

“Not yet. What happened to your face?”

“Let’s go order,” he says, turning away. Mike follows him to the counter where a bored girl watches them both with disinterest.

“Can I have a latte to take away?”

“Why takeaway?” Mike asks.

“They don’t let you smoke in here,” Chester says, pulling his wallet from his back pocket attached to a chain. He opens it and furrows his brow. “Oh, fuck.”

“I’ll get it,” Mike says, stepping forward. “Can I have a black tea?” He hands over a note and the girl grabs two cups.

“What’s your name?” She asks Chester.

“Winston.”

Mike nearly dies.

“And you?”

“Mike,” he says, following Chester round to the serving area. “Winston? What the fuck is that all about?”

“Dude, don’t act as if it’s not weirder that you ordered tea. Who fucking drinks tea?”

“I do. You don’t like tea? If you’re going to lie about your name why would you go to Winston from Chester? It’s not any cooler?”

“I’m not one million years old like you are, that’s why I don’t like tea. And I dunno, Winston just came to me. Last week I was Juan.”

“You don’t look like a Juan,” Mike says, taking his cup from the waitress and dumping four sachets of sugar in it. “And I’m not one million years old, either.”

Chester takes his coffee and watches Mike stir his sugary tea with disapproval. “Whatever, fossil.”

Outside in the parking lot they sit on the curb, knees almost up to their chests, watching cars drive past. Chester isn’t smoking, but has a lit cigarette hanging carelessly from his right hand. The smoke curls away and disappears into the air. A car speeds past and blares its horn.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?”

“Why do you care?”

“Jesus, Chester, it was just a question.”

He sighs and sets down his cup, playing with his fingers. His dreadlocks fall to hide his face. “I got into a fight, last night.”

“When you left the club?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. What happened?”

“Nothing. So, I don’t really know why I asked if you wanted to meet up. I guess I was high.”

Mike laughs, “Yeah, you were.” He doesn’t push the subject anymore, has a feeling he knows what happened. Chester would tell him, when they were writing together, about just how his dad ruled the house when he was a kid. “We both were, really. That’s your fault. You’re a bad influence.”

“I’m too young to be a bad influence,” Chester says with a smirk. “I wouldn’t be pissed, you know, if you wanted to leave.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. Just, this is all a bit fucking awkward. I can just remember thinking; if I didn’t ask to hang out with you then I’d regret it. But I don’t know why. I don’t normally hang out with forty year old guys if they’re not selling me drugs.”

“I’m not forty, fucking Christ. It doesn’t need to be a big deal,” Mike says, watching Chester pour tiny amounts of latte from the spout of his cup onto the asphalt of the parking lot. “Do you do a lot of drugs?”

“Depends what you class as ‘a lot’. I do more than my dad would probably want me to do, you know? But I could quit any time. They just keep me grounded. People take them to make them feel lighter or whatever, wash away their cares, but I take them to nail me to the ground. Especially recently. Fuck, why am I even telling you this?” He shifts his weight uncomfortably and sighs. “Sorry, man.”

Mike shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I only asked so I could lecture you, anyway.”

“Fuck you, Nancy Reagan, you did more coke than me last night.”

“Does your band have an album?” Mike asks, crushing his empty cup in his fist.

“Not yet. Soon, I hope. I want it to be called Wake Me but the rest of the band are douche bags so who knows what the end title will be.”

“If you hate it so much why don’t you just quit?”

Chester shrugs. “This is my life, man. This could be my big break. I’m not going stick around Phoenix forever, I can’t. This isn’t going to be where I grow old and die,” he says with conviction mixed with fear. He is clear on what he wants but is terrified that it might not work out that way.

“What about your fiancé?”

“Sam just wants me to be happy.”

Mike nods, not trusting himself to say anything else about her.

***

They don’t see each other for a few days. Mike gives Chester his hotel room phone number with a line about being in town on business. He doesn’t say what kind of business and Chester doesn’t ask. Then one day he shows up at the hotel. It’s three in the morning and security call Mike’s room asking if he is expecting any visitors.

“No,” he mutters, groggy and pissed off at being woken up, “why?”

“There’s a young man down here to see you but he’s making quite the scene. We’ll ask him to leave.”

Chester. “Fuck, wait, no, hold up.” Mike slams the phone down and pulls on the oversized jeans and white t-shirt he bought to replace his skinny jeans and plaid shirt that people kept staring at. Chester kept asking him why he was dressed like a lumber jack, and it made Mike’s heart ache because that’s something he is used to hearing from Chester now-a-days.

Down in the lobby two security guards have hold of Chester who is writhing and spitting at them like an angry cat. When he sees Mike he tries to jerk his arm away from the grip. The security guard turns to him calmly, “Sir, could you please calm down or I’ll have the police called.”

“Could your mom please calm down, fucker?” Chester hisses.

“Chester, come on, they’ll kick us both out so just chill.” Mike nods to the security guards who reluctantly let go of Chester’s arms and turn away. “Come up to my room.”

Behind the safety of the locked bedroom door Mike sits on the edge of his unmade bed whilst Chester paces, eyes wild. “She’s pregnant, she’s fucking pregnant. And she wants to keep it.”

“Who? Sam?” Mike asks, confused. That can’t be right, and if it is he certainly hasn’t been told about it. He supposes there are some things that Chester might have kept from him, even after all this time.

“No. Not Sam. I...there was another girl. I don’t even fucking remember. And now she’s pregnant. And she showed up my house all like, pregnant, and now my dad knows and...” Chester trails off, stares out of the window.

“What? What happened?” Mike gets to his feet, approaches carefully the way you might a stray dog baring its teeth. “What did he do? Chester?” He steps into his line of vision and is surprised by the streams of tears running down his face. Gently he reaches out and wipes them away with his thumbs. Chester’s eyes meet his and it is unclear who leans in to kiss who, but their lips brush slowly. Mike keeps his hands cupping Chester’s face lightly as the kiss deepens and the move closer together. “Fuck,” he says, stepping back, “we can’t...you’re upset. And you’re a kid.”

“I don’t...please, Mike, please...” Chester whispers and moves forward again.

Between gentle kisses Mike says, “It will get better. It will get easier. Let her have her baby, Chaz, let her keep it. It doesn’t have to involve you; things don’t have to be like that.”

Chester pushes his hands under Mike’s t-shirt, cold fingers dancing over the skin of his lower back. “But Sam...”

“Do you love Sam? Really?” Mike asks, pushing Chester’s hands away. “Because this...what you’re doing now...”

“Does it have to be about love? Can it not be about security? About not being alone?”

“That’s called settling for someone, Chester. You’re settling for Sam because it’s easier, more convenient.”

“Than what?”

“Admitting to yourself that you are gay.”

This goes down like a lead balloon. Chester backs away and frowns, shaking his head as if this is the worst news in the whole world. “I’m not gay,” he says, “I’m not.”

“Then what...just now...”

“That doesn’t mean I’m gay. I’m not...do you know what would happen?”

“Yeah, I do. Because I’ve been through it. And it gets easier. You don’t have to marry Sam and have a family and live miserably for years.”

“That’s not what’s going to happen,” Chester protests.

Mike throws up his hands in frustration. “Yes it is. It happened to me and it’ll happen to you. You’ll realise how miserable you are and that you’re in love with someone else and then you’ll have the trauma of divorce, of joined custody of the kids you didn’t even want to have. Just fucking face it, now, and deal with it.”

Chester shakes his head, jaw clenched, accusatory finger pointing at Mike as he walks backward toward the door. “You fucking stay away from me,” he hisses in warning. The door doesn’t slam behind him, but Mike jumps all the same.

He has blown it. What if, now, Chester never goes to LA? What if he stays here with Sam and never hears about the band because of how much Mike has meddled. His head is spinning and he runs out of the hotel room, barely remembering to grab his key on the way out. Running in one direction Mike takes a chance and heads for the bridge by the freeway, doesn’t really expect to find Chester there because that’s not how lucky he is. Does, though, and approaches slowly.

“What you doing here?”

“Thought I’d jump but there’s no traffic around, yet,” Chester says.

Mike stands beside him, leaning his weight on the railing. “If you really want me to leave you alone I will, but I need to tell you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay just...suspend your disbelief. So...in the future you’re going to work as an office junior for a record label executive who hears of a band called Xero in Los Angeles. This is after you leave Grey Daze. They’re looking for a singer, Xero, and your boss puts you forward. You get a demo in the mail and you go to the studio and record your own vocals onto the tracks and mail it back. You’re going to be the best thing to ever happen to that band,” he says smiling fondly at the memory of the first audition, meeting Chester at their crappy rehearsal studio and knowing, right away, that his life was going to change.

Chester pulls a tobacco tin from the pocket of his jeans and balances it on the railing, rolling a cigarette with experienced fingers. “Then what?” he asks impatiently.

“Then the band will change their name to Hybrid Theory and then again to Linkin Park. But some things, they depend on decisions you make now.”

“Like what?”

“If you stay with Sam she’ll come to LA with you. You’ll have a family, you’ll be happy, but you’ll fall in love with the emcee in the band. He’s married, too, but he’ll leave his wife for you. It’s not an easy decision for you to make, having dragged Sam so far from home. You go back to the drugs you managed to kick for a while and, even when you’re in a relationship with the emcee you still fall off the wagon. You’re scared to tell people you’re gay, want to keep everything a secret until one day someone finds out and it’s everywhere. You get wasted one night, go out for a drive. A sixteen wheeler hits the side of your car and you end up on life support.”

Mike is surprised at how choked up he is getting, even more surprised when Chester tucks away his tobacco tin and moves closer, their fingers brushing. “You’ll end up on life support,” Mike mumbles, “and I’ll have to make the decision to turn off the machine. And I can’t, I can’t do it. Because then I’ll be alone, and everything will become nothing more than a memory.”

Chester frowns, opens his mouth to say something and closes it just as quick.

“I’ll be left behind. And then one day I’ll wake up and it’s fucking 1994 and I’m here and you’re a kid and you’re starting to make the decisions that led you to where you ended up.”

“Are you high?”

“Fuck, no I’m not high. Are you listening to me? You, right now it is 2012 and you’re in hospital dead, kept alive by machines.”

“Is this a way to make me sleep with you because it’s not working,” Chester smirks.

“Would you fucking listen to me?” Mike yells. “This is your future, Chester. I woke up here, the day I met you in Burger King. I was sent back here to, I don’t know, fix something. But all I’ve done is make it worse. You have to figure this all out for yourself, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. But if you bring Sam to LA with you when you get the call in five years time you’ll end up regretting it.”

“You think I really believe you’re from the future? Who are you to fucking tell me what to do? Even my dad can’t tell me what to do.”  
“That’s surprising seeing as he beats you up more often than not,” Mike snaps. “Fine, Chester, do what you want. You always do and it always works out so fucking well for you.” He turns away and starts walking, tears burning his eyes. He doesn’t know the way back to the hotel and he doesn’t really care. The sun is coming up by the time he makes it back and he falls into his bed with exhaustion and is asleep the second his head hits the pillow.

***

When he wakes up he feels sick to his stomach. He rolls over and his arm hits somebody beside him in the face and he thinks fuck, who did I bring back with me and why?

“Dude, my facial organs.”

Mike sits up as if electrocuted and stares down in wide-eyed terror at Chester lying beside him with a hand pressed to his eye.

“Seriously, man, at least warn me before you hit me. What’d I do, this time?”

“I...I...Chester...”

Chester sits up, frowning. “What?” He asks, sliding a hand under the pillow and producing his cell phone. “Fuck, we over slept. Do you want to save money and shower together? I’ll forget all about the punch in the face if you give me a blow job,” he says with a wink.

“Where am I?”

“Dallas, Texas, USA, Earth. Get your ass out of bed.” Chester pushes back the sheets and pads to the bathroom, completely naked.

Mike checks the date on his cell phone. Today was the day he had to tell the doctors to switch off the life support. This leg of the Honda Civic tour is the one they cancelled because of Chester’s accident. This is where he left off, but things are different. He follows Chester to the bathroom and watches the singer move around behind the steamed up glass of the shower cubicle.

“How did we meet?” Mike asks.

“Uh...what?”

“Just answer the question.”

Chester pokes his head out of the cubicle. “I drove out to audition. You met me at the rehearsal studio and I was so bummed there were other people trying out, too, it really bugged me. You know this, though.”

“So, we never met before that? In like, Arizona?”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Chester sighs, “Will you drop it? I admitted I was taking drugs, so why keep bringing it up? It’s not like I’m doing them now.”

“Huh?”

“The hallucination I had about you when I was tripping. We’ve been over this, can’t you just leave it?”

“No,” Mike snaps. “I want to hear it all. Again. Even if it’s the zillionth time.”

“I was like, eighteen. I took some bad drugs and had this epic trip that I met you and we hung out and stuff. We were going to, you know, fuck I guess but you told me you were from the future and then disappeared,” Chester ducks back into the cubicle, running his hands through his hair.

The arch of his back, the water running down his chest and the way he opens his mouth to sigh as the warm water hits him gets Mike instantly hard but he has to focus. “What did I tell you? In the trip?”

“Not to bring Sam to LA. So I didn’t. I told her I was gay and broke up with her. I told my parents and moved in with Sean when my dad beat me up so badly I couldn’t walk. Look, do we have to talk about this now? You’ve heard it all before and I’m really horny.”

Mike feels his heart racing in his chest and he wants to scream. More out of happiness than anything else. “Okay,” he says, “okay so you did what a hallucination told you?”

“Yes. And it worked out pretty well because we’re here, now, horny and alone. Get in the god damn shower, would you?”

“I dreamt about it,” Mike says as he pulls of his boxers. “That’s why I’m asking. I dreamt you had a car crash and you were dying. I ended up back in time and told you not to take so many drugs and not to marry Sam and you told me to go fuck myself.”

Chester laughs as Mike steps into the shower, slides his hands around his waist. “It’s those protein shakes, I told you. I don’t care if Brad swears by them they’re fucking gross and weird.” He leans in and kisses Mike slowly. When he goes to pull away Mike pulls him back and deepens the kiss, pressing Chester slowly against the wall. The touch is something he never thought he’d get again, and he clings to him with tears in his eyes.

“You okay?” Chester asks breathlessly.

“I’m just happy,” Mike smiles.

“Okay, well, I don’t mean to be an asshole but...” he gestures down to his erection, “it isn’t going to suck itself.”

Mike laughs, kisses him again, before sinking to his knees and taking Chester in his mouth. He sucks lightly and hums around him as he bobs his head.

“Ah, what is that song?” Chester laces his hands through Mike’s hair and thrusts forward. He is just about to come when Mike pulls away.

“Wake me, by Grey Daze,” he says with a smirk, flicking his tongue across the tip.

“Good band.”

“Yeah,” Mike says as he wraps a hand around Chester, jacking him off. “Singer is a douche bag, though.”

Chester goes to protest but Mike takes him in his mouth again, and he falls against the wall with a sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> _Maybe this time I can do it all right, without my foot in my mouth, without that blind in my sight. Could this all just be a dream? If I should fall to stormy weather, wake me, wake me. Too scared to lose the one I tried so hard for. Too scared to lose the one I never had._


End file.
